Saturday
by Apnoea
Summary: Movie: Drillbit Taylor. Filkins and Ronnie spend a Saturday at home, instead of traditionally partying, like Ronnie has always wanted. Filkins/Ronnie. Slash. Oneshot/one-shot.


**A/N:** Uhm, here's a little Terry(Filkins)/Ronnie fic. Slashy. And stuffs. Probably OOC, and has some flaws (which you'd probably only notice if you've seen the movie ten billion times, lol). I love Drillbit Taylor. Here you go!

* * *

--  
**SATURDAY  
**_A Drillbit Taylor one-shot  
-- _

The whole school seemed to know him as Filkins, the school bully. He'd always been that, to everyone, since the first grade. Not to you. You knew him on a personal level – he started hanging around you in fifth or sixth grade, deciding you were fierce enough for him. By the time you reached high school together, you were known as the feared, fearless, and kick ass bullies, Filkins, and his friend, Ronnie. You didn't mind that you were mostly known just as "Filkins' friend", because that felt like an honour for you.

You knew it was wrong the way you liked him, the way you hung on emotionally for the after-school Xbox and PlayStation time, where he would be himself, laughing in a way that wasn't at someone, or in a mean way. Laughing because he was having fun. You felt privileged, being one of the only people to hear that laugh.

Filkins was never chatty with the ladies. Sure, he had a lot of girls wanting him, some either too scared to approach him, or the others waiting to be approached. He'd give whistles and winks in the halls, which made you so jealous that you wanted to rip some little nerd's head off, but he never went further than that, except on the Saturday night parties.

But you always stuck in, every day, through the winks, whistles, name-calling, beating up… everything. Just to hear his genuine laugh at the end of the day. And at the end of the week, it would be a whole night of genuine laughs. Friday nights were your highlight of the week, but the fun of that night was usually ruined by the next night, having a big party at his place.

Sure, you were surrounded in girls trying to flirt with you on those Saturday night parties, but you weren't interested. Never. You just wanted to keep your eye on Filkins, making sure some girl or something wasn't licking him. Each Saturday night, when you couldn't find him, around the time of twelve A.M., you got so frustrated you could almost cry. You knew what he was doing. You just didn't want to admit it to yourself.

And, then, that next weekend, there wasn't a Saturday night party. It was just you and Filkins, sitting in his lounge room, playing his Xbox, whilst eating chips. It had, so far, been the best two days of Xbox-playing you had ever experienced. Two days in a row of genuine laughing, without all that bullying bullshit.

"Why isn't there a party tonight?" you found yourself asking as your fingers furiously slammed at the buttons on the controller, trying to beat him, just for once.

"Don't feel like it this weekend." Filkins said casually, shrugging his shoulders. "Would rather spend my night playing games with you."

Your heart skipped a beat.

He would rather spend a night with you, than around lots of other girls, and alcohol, and music, and… well, wow.

"Huh… whaa?" was all you managed to say in reply. You were too shocked.

He paused the game, placed the controller next to him, and looked at you. You could tell, from the corner of your eye, that he expected you to look back. But you didn't want to throw him even the smallest of glances – you were too nervous and shocked.

"I said, Ronnie," he said, his voice still calm, casual, relaxed, and confident, "that I'd rather spend the night here, with you, just us, eating junk food."

You took a deep breath and scratched your chin, where two-day-old stubble was sitting, awaiting to be shaved. Curiosity digged at your brain, scratching and scratching… You wanted to know his facial expression right now, but you were too nervous to look. All you could do was drop the controller to the ground, causing a slight noise, but definitely not harming it in even the slightest way.

"Kay," was all that came out of your mouth in response, and nearly as soon as you said it, his hand was on your shoulder.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concern written in his voice.

You wanted to blurt out everything. Tell him that everything was _not_ okay, that you've had feelings for him since the start of high school, that you blame him for making you feel like this, always, and that you just want to lavish him on one of these Saturday nights, and then blame it on your alcohol consumption.

"Ronnie?" you hear his voice ask again. "Are you okay?"

His voice seems to echo in your mind, as you process the question. You just wish his hand would move from your shoulder, back onto his controller, and to never touch you again. You gulped, shutting your eyes tightly – you wished, as soon as you opened them, that you weren't stuck in this awkward, speechless situation any longer.

"Do you _want_ a party? Is that it?" he asked, still concerned, and almost worried. You had never heard this tone in his voice before. "We–"

"No!" you said abruptly, interrupting him, surprised at your own voice: it was cracking, almost, and it was urgent and impatient… and begging. "No. I don't want a party."

What you said was followed by silence, and you couldn't take it. Him not talking bothered you _more_ than his hand on your shoulder. You cracked.

"I _never_ want the stupid fucking Saturday night parties!" you said, not yelling, but talking, in a desperate tone. "I've been waiting so long for you to tell me that you weren't going to get fucking drunk and party, and just spend the fucking night with me, doing nothing in particular. I've waited so fucking long for you to spend a Saturday night playing games, instead of fucking some girl upstairs in your bedroom." You were almost crying, wanting to lash out at him, but you couldn't move.

His hand fell from your shoulder; he didn't pull it towards him, and he didn't trail it down your back, it just… dropped, straight onto the couch, as if his hand had suffered from major shock.

You, finally, take a chance to look at him. His face was guarded, not giving away much, but you could tell, in his eyes, that he was shocked by your outrage.

You stood up quickly, almost tripping over the dropped controller, and made your way to the door. You maybe muttered a quick, "I'm sorry," on the way, but you can't remember.

Your hand was on the doorhandle of the front door, but as soon as you went to turn it, his arm was around your neck, trapping you in a headlock. Instinctively, you gave a backwards kick, hitting him in the knee. He loosened his grip as he let out a sharp yelp of pain, and you seized the opportunity to spin around. You were about to aim a punch at his face, but his grip tightened once more, and you were trapped between his body and the door. You found it useless to struggle.

And then you suddenly realise that you _did_ wish there was a party tonight. That it was just the normal routine, because this wasn't how you imagined spending a party-less Saturday night – you had never actually planned out your fantasies in a logical way of happening of any sort.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Ronnie?" he asked, his voice furious. Not the normal voice he used when he was around only you. You realised, as you felt his warm, high-paced pants of breath on your neck, that he was _really_ close – too close for your non-fantasy comfort. He may be shorter than you, but he was more fierce, aggressive, and nasty.

"I… I…" was all you managed to choke out.

And that's when it happened.

The tears started flowing.

Sobs didn't start, no, but the tears didn't stop.

You felt weak, useless, and outright embarrassed once you realised you were crying in front of him, your best friend, the school bully, the man who could make you feel horrible as quickly as he could make you happy.

As soon as he comprehended your crying, though, his eyes widened, and his muscles and grip weakened, and he almost fell into you, squishing you against the door. You couldn't tell if he had fainted or was giving you a hug. He'd never given you more than a high-five, ever, so you assumed he had fainted.

You leaned your head back against the door, and quietly whispered, "Filkins?" you didn't want to look down, and you didn't want to use his first name to anger him right now, if he were awake.

"Yeah?" came a reply, and you felt his breath on your chest more than you heard him say the actual word.

And then you felt his head move up, and you felt obligated to shift your head downwards to meet his gaze. It was sharp, stern, and full of an unknown look that you had never, ever seen before in his eyes, about anything. He stood on the tip of his toes, leaning up, and you also leaned your head down. Your lips met with his in a way you never thought they would – they connected better than every fantasy you had imagined, and you were hypnotised by the way he moved smoothly, softly, and effortlessly against your lips.

When he moaned your name against your lips, your knees gave way, but he stopped you from falling by pushing you against the door with sudden aggression you thought he didn't have at the moment. You felt light-headed, out of breath, and amazed.

And when he finally pulled away, you kept your eyes closed and let your head fall backwards, hitting the door with a loud thump.

!#$%^&*()

The next Monday, at school, as you gave some nerd a wedgie in the boys' toilets, you exchanged glances and smiled at each other, in a completely non-wicked way.

* * *

**A/N:** If you liked it, please leave a review! I love reviews!

– Veronica


End file.
